CHAPTER FOUR

 

 

 

I pulled the door shut behind me and headed up the external stairs that led to my place. I was used to the fire escape stairs. Most people probably thought it was a piss-poor entrance to someone’s apartment, but it worked for me. I started up the stairs and heard Andrew climb up behind me. “It’s okay if you want to check out my arse.”

He stopped. “Do you say that to all the guys you bring up here?”

I laughed and looked back down at him. “Only the really hot ones.”

He shook his head and didn’t say anything else until I’d unlocked my door and walked inside my place. The truth was, I didn’t bring any of my clients up here. I usually opted to do the whole getting-acquainted thing in a café or at their place. It put a buffer between my personal and professional life. I didn’t know why I’d offered to bring Andrew into my home. I just didn’t know.

My flat, or apartment as the Americans called it, was a small one-bedroom place. But the kitchen and bathroom were good, the combined living and dining area was long, and a huge window framed the far wall out onto Abbott Kinney Boulevard. When the sun went down, the nightlife of LA lit my living room, and during the day the sunlight was perfect for reading. Which was why there was a big papasan chair in front of the window. Near the window I had makeshift bookcases filled with mostly second-hand books. Actually, most things in my place were second-hand, scored from thrift stores or vintage markets, but somehow, when all put together, it worked.

“Nice place,” he said, looking around. He nodded. “If there was a magazine called Retro-Vintage-Bachelor Living, this would be on the cover.”

I laughed. “Emilio and Daniela used to live here,” I told him. “They renovated the kitchen and bathroom while they were here, so it’s pretty good. They moved out when Daniela’s mum got sick; they wanted her to live with them but she couldn’t manage the stairs.”

Andrew nodded. “They seem like nice people.” He said it like it was a question.

I stared at him for a long moment. “Even though they’re covered in tattoos?”

His eyes shot to mine. “No, that’s not what I said. I said they seem like nice people, given I’ve met them for a whole twenty seconds.”

“You won’t find more decent people,” I told him. “Regardless of what they wear on their skin.”

“I don’t have anything against tattoos,” he said. “Or the people that have them.”

“Good,” I said. “Because you and Emilio would get on really well. You’re both artists, you both draw for a living. Only your drawing board doesn’t move or bleed.”

He conceded with a smile. “True.”

I was glad the tension was gone. I didn’t want to have to give him the “people with tattoos are people too” speech. He didn’t seem the kind of guy who would be prejudiced against anyone for anything. Not that I knew him that well, but he seemed genuine. And it had been a while since I’d worked with someone who was.

In the short silence between us, he walked directly over to the vinyl record player. It was in a big wooden cabinet with a hinged lid that opened up to where the turntable was. “My grandparents had one of these,” he said. He was smiling again. “Does it work?”

I walked over to it and stood beside him. I nodded to the vinyl record covers on the bookcase. “Yep.”

“What have you got?” he asked, though he didn’t wait for an answer. He simply helped himself to look. He flipped through them, considering each one. “Rather eclectic collection.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “Everything from the Ramones to Billie Holiday.”

He stopped flipping and slowly pulled out the record that had made him stop. “Can I play this?”

I nodded and smiled when I saw which one it was. It was a compilation of blues and jazz: Otis Redding, Bill Withers, Percy Sledge, Miles Davis, and Aretha Franklin. Andrew slid the record out of the cover like it was the most precious thing in the world, then carefully put the needle on the vinyl. The room filled with that familiar, perfect crackle that only vinyl gave, and “Ain’t No Sunshine” started to play.

Andrew closed his eyes, lost in the music, and a slow smile spread across his face. He whispered, “It’s incredible.”

“So much is lost with modern music,” I said quietly. He looked at me then, so I explained. “I mean, I like contemporary music, but this—” I paused as Bill Withers sang. “—this is classic.”

Andrew smiled at me, then shook his head disbelievingly. “So you curl up in the sun with a book while you listen to vinyl records?”

“Some days,” I said. “Some days I use my iPod and belt out the Top 20. Depends what I’m in the mood for.”

“What do your playlists look like?” he asked, genuinely interested.

I pulled out my phone, selected the music, and handed it to him. “Have a look.” I left him to it, walked over to my dining table, and opened my laptop.

He took his time scrolling. “I’ve not heard of half of these,” he said, his brow furrowed.

“Most of them are Aussie bands.”

He made a thoughtful face. “I’ll have to check them out when I get home.”

“You can listen to them now if you want.”

“I’d prefer to listen to this.” He smiled as Otis Redding started to sing.

“So you play classical piano, but you like jazz?”

“Yes.”

“What sheet music is on your piano right now?”

He grinned at me. “‘Yesterdays’ by Art Tatum.”

I blinked. “Who?”

“Just the best jazz funk pianist to ever live.”

“So wait,” I said, putting my hands up. “You learned classical, but you play jazz?” He nodded sheepishly. “And you said you weren’t cool? Or interesting? Jesus, Andrew. If there was a magazine called Sexy and Cool Cartoonographers Who Play Jazz Funk Piano and Watch Stanley Kubrick Films, you’d be on the cover. Of every issue.”

He laughed, long and loud, and his cheeks tinted pink. Then he slid my phone back across the table to me and sat down in the seat next to mine. I’d typed Eli’s name into Facebook to see who or what came up. There were a few, so I scrolled down the list.

“That’s him there,” Andrew said.

I let my finger hover over the icon. “Have you checked out his wall lately?”

Andrew shook his head. “No.”

I clicked on his picture and Andrew looked away from the screen. “Everything okay?” I asked him.

“Yeah,” he said, looking at me, but avoiding the laptop. “I just don’t want to see if he’s…”

“If he’s posted pictures of himself with someone else?”

Andrew nodded. “I hadn’t thought about that until you asked me if he was seeing someone else.” Then he shook his head and narrowed his eyes. “And here I am trying to bait him into coming back to me. Kinda sad, huh?”

“No,” I said gently. “Above all, you want answers. And that’s what we’re doing.”

“Getting answers?”

“Yep.”

“That I may or may not like to hear.”

I sighed. “It’s a possibility,” I told him. “You might not like what he has to say, but wouldn’t you be better off knowing?”

He nodded.

I scrolled down Eli’s timeline. “He really should change his security settings.” I could, as a complete stranger, see almost everything about him. Other people had tagged him in memes or jokes. He’d made a few posts over the last few weeks. “He never mentioned moving out or your separation,” I said, and only then did Andrew look at the screen.

But then, posted earlier in the week, he was tagged in a conversation about this weekend. “Who’s Terri Santos?”

“Eli works with her. They’re friends though. We’d go out with her sometimes.”

“She says here they’re going to the Basement for her birthday drinks and asked him if he wanted to join them.”

“When?”

“Tonight, at eight.”

“What did he say?” he asked, as he leaned in to read the post and comments in question.

I paraphrased Eli’s reply. “Said he doesn’t want to be sick for work tomorrow, but he might call in for a few.”

Andrew looked from the screen to me, and I realised how close we were. His blue eyes had flecks of grey in them, which I’d not noticed before. He was so good looking, he smelled damn good, and he was so, so close.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

Shit. “About what?” Because what I was thinking about was sliding my hand along your jaw and kissing you. I bet you taste as good as you smell…

“About Eli, of course.”

“Oh, right, yes. Of course,” I said, shaking my head of the stupid thoughts I’d just had. “We should go. You and me, to the Basement, tonight.”

“Oh.”

“If we want Eli to see you on a date with another guy, then we need to actually go out.”

“On a date?”

“We know it’s not real, but he won’t.”

He seemed to think this over, as though he was wondering if he wanted to do this at all. “Okay.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

He looked at me with those soul-seeing blue-grey eyes. “Well, yeah.”

He didn’t sound very convinced, and I wasn’t sure why that pleased me. We had hours before our first public outing in front of our intended target audience, but even so, we had some work to do. I wasn’t sure which of us would struggle more. Normally I could get close to my clients and not think anything of it. Andrew was different. I looked at my watch. “Well, we have a while yet, but maybe we should practice a little?”

“Practice?”

“Yeah,” I swallowed hard. “You know, our story for the public, how we met, holding hands, that kind of thing.”

He blanched. “Oh.”

“I’m not that repulsive, am I?” I half-joked, half-not.

Andrew blushed. “Ah, no. Definitely not.” He stood up from the table and walked into my small kitchen. He leaned against the counter and folded his arms, then unfolded them as though it was a habit he was trying to break, then shoved his hands in his pockets instead. He cleared his throat and asked, “So, what do we tell people about how we met?”

“Your sister and my best friend met at a wedding last weekend,” I said

“Well, technically they did,” he said, confused.

“Exactly. It’s best to stick to the truth as much as possible,” I explained. “That way, if Eli runs into Sarah in the street or the store and puts her on the spot with questions, no one has to lie.”

“I really don’t think he’ll buy it,” he said quietly. “This whole you and me thing.”

“Why not?”

He stared at me like I’d missed the obvious.

“Don’t start with that but look at me crap,” I said with a smirk. “Unless you have a problem with tattoos and Eli knows that. Is that what you mean?” I showed him how my ink never went past my wrists. I had no tattoos on my hands or my neck, or my chest or back for that matter. I was strictly a sleeves-only guy. “Because I can wear a long-sleeved shirt and he won’t even be able to tell.”

Andrew shook his head. “No, don’t change a thing,” he said quietly. Then he shrugged one shoulder. “It’s just the whole, you know, you’re trendy and I’m not thing.”

“Oh yeah, that’s right,” I said standing up. “I’m just some random guy on page four of Gay and Trendy, and you’re the cover model of Cool.”

He laughed at that and shook his head at me. “You know what I mean.”

“No I don’t. But you know what? It doesn’t matter. If he is inclined to think us being together is out of character, then at least we know we have his attention.”

He considered this. “True.”

I stood up and walked to stand in front of him. I was closer than what would probably be considered polite, but that was my point. I held out my hand between us, palm up. He obviously didn’t know what I meant, so I explained. “Your hand?”

Slowly, he put his hand in mine. I held it, feeling the warmth and smooth skin of his palm, then traced my thumb over his knuckles. Then I held his hand in both of mine and gave it a squeeze. “This okay?” I asked.

He nodded.

“So when we’re out together, if I grab your hand, you won’t pull it away?”

He shook his head, and he whispered, “No.”

I could feel his body heat, I could feel his nervousness. Or maybe it was mine. Either way, the air between us was electric. Sure, I’d been close with other clients—held hands, danced, even kissed—but it was no more than acting. I was playing a role, no more, no less.

So why was I nervous? Maybe it had been too long between drinks, so to speak. Maybe I needed to go out and let loose. And maybe when this job was done, that’s exactly what I’d do.

I didn’t know why Andrew was different. He was interesting, sure. He was smart and made me laugh. At first I thought he was just humble about his job and his musical talents, but the more I got to know him, the more I realised he wasn’t humble at all. He was oblivious.

I had to wonder what the fuck was wrong with Eli to want to walk away from him.

It was then I realised he was holding my hand as much as I was holding his. He didn’t just let his hand sit limp in mine. He ran his thumb along the side of my hand and his fingers kind of gripped onto mine. It was comforting and warm, and above all, it just felt really nice.

I swallowed down the unexpected lump in my throat. “And if we have to dance?”

It took him a moment to answer. I wasn’t sure if he was aware of the static between us or if it was just me. “Oh, I don’t dance.”

“Okay, fair enough,” I said. I was okay with that. Some people didn’t like to dance, and that was fine. “But what if there’s loud music and I need to lean in close?” I asked. My voice was husky from trying to whisper and getting all breathy instead.

He blinked quickly and licked his bottom lip. We were still holding hands, so I took one hand each in mine and spread his arms out at the sides. I leaned in slow, feeling his warmth but not quite touching, and ignoring how good he smelled, I put my lips to his ear. “This okay?”

He nodded, and I’m pretty sure he didn’t breathe.

I pulled back so I could see his face but still kept hold of his hands. “If he’s watching us, I might lean in to talk in your ear. But it will only be to get his attention.”

He cleared his throat. “And that worked with other guys?”

“Other clients?” I clarified. There was a distinct difference between guys I liked and guys I worked with. “It usually works, yes.”

He let out a deep breath. “Oh, okay.”

“And I’ll only kiss you if we need it to seal the deal,” I told him. “Kinda like the make or break kiss. He either won’t care, or he’ll let me know he didn’t appreciate my touching you. But if I do kiss you, you’ll need to trust me that it’s because Eli’s watching and warring with himself about coming over. Just go along with it.”

His eyes were wide. “Oh.”

I almost laughed. “We don’t need to practice kissing,” I added. “Unless you want to.”

He snorted, and a blush crept up his neck. “Ah, I think I’m familiar with how it works.”

“Though I’ve only had to kiss one client once. Most of the time a well-placed hand and whispering in your ear will do the trick. Like this,” I said, letting go of his hand so I could put my hand on his waist. On his hard, well-defined waist. “Jesus, what you got going on under that shirt?”

He blanched. “What?”

I gave his side a squeeze. “You’re like ripped or something!”

He jumped and grabbed my hand with a laugh. “Ah!”

“You’re ticklish?” I asked, laughing with him. “Good to know.”

His cheeks were red, but he was still smiling, and the serious mood between us was broken. I didn’t know whether to be grateful or disappointed. I shook myself out and took a deep breath. “Okay, serious again.”

He looked at me weirdly. “What was it like when you kissed that guy?”

“My client?”

He nodded.

“To be honest, it was awkward,” I admitted. “I didn’t really like him, so it wasn’t natural, if that’s what you mean?”

“You didn’t like him?”

“I mean, he wasn’t my type.”

He nodded. “Did it work?” he asked. “Did it get his ex’s attention?”

“It sure did. Like I said, I’m good at what I do.”

He bit his bottom lip and looked away. Eventually he nodded, as though he’d come to some conclusion in his head.

“If you want to draw the line at something, please just say,” I told him. “If me kissing you makes you uncomfortable, you have to tell me. Ultimately it all comes down to you. You’re the boss here.”

He took a while to answer, and I worried for a second he’d say no to the possibility of me kissing him, or even touching him. I didn’t know why that bothered me. Probably because he was so cute and he smelled so good and his lips looked so damn kissable…

“It’s fine,” he answered. Then he shook his head and chuckled nervously. “My God, this is weird.”

I breathed a sigh of relief, unable to stop from smiling. “Only if we let it get weird.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets again. “So, what do we do for the next few hours?”

There was absolutely no reason for him to be here for the next few hours at least. If it were anyone else, I would have bid him farewell and told him I’d call past his place at seven. But this was different. I didn’t know why it was different. It just was. So instead of telling him to leave, I said, “How ’bout you pick another record for us to listen to?”

Then he had to go and pick Jeff Buckley’s live LP, and I knew right then and there I was in trouble.